


Despoiled of her Arms

by k_drake



Series: Baldur's Gate: Twice-Told Tales [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Forgotten Realms
Genre: Attempted Murder, Bathing/Washing, Domination, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mages, Other, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shadows of Amn, Spellhold, Vampires, Wizards, Wrongful Imprisonment, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:37:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_drake/pseuds/k_drake
Summary: An account of Imoen's first days in Spellhold; a loose prequel to the tale, "The Possibility of Being."





	

            “The Coordinator will see you now,” said the guard, startling Imoen from sleep.

            “Hurry up,” he barked as she blinked in the lamplight, tugging her arm and curling his lip in disgust as Imoen bent double, gulping for breath as the protection of her thin blanket was stripped away and cold air enveloped her. 

            “Ugh, she stinks,” said a voice from the doorway.  “She’ll have to be bathed before he sees her.”

            The guard’s brow furrowed, and he looked doubtful for a brief moment before shrugging. 

            “You’ll get a tub, won’t you, Lonk?” continued the voice sweetly, the mellifluous sound at odds with their grim surroundings.

            “Yes, Mistress,” said the guard, releasing his hold on Imoen abruptly and turning on his heel. 

            “There’s a good lad,” said the woman silkily, stepping into Imoen’s line of sight.  She wore the simple, dark dress of a domestic worker, but her bearing was anything but servile. 

            “Hello, little one,” she whispered in a throaty voice that made Imoen think of dark liquor being poured over ice.  

            “Mmn, you’re very good at that, aren’t you,” said the woman, as Imoen shrank back.  “Even your stench seems to recede.  Most humans are afraid of shadows, but I think you’ve learned that there’s a certain kindness to the dark that covers up the ugliness and scars, and offers safety from prying eyes.”   

            She had advanced with unaccountable swiftness and soundlessness, and Imoen caught her scent, dead leaves and dark earth beneath a smoky overlay of incense that made Imoen feel as if she were in a sarcophagus.  She raised her hand, causing Imoen to wince, but she only held it out, a silent offer of aid. 

            Taking the proffered hand, Imoen stood up slowly, her thoughts as slow and heavy as limbs underwater.  How long had she been in Spellhold?  Time was a blur, punctuated with sharp voices that made forceful, incomprehensible noises as she drifted in and out of a sleeping potion-induced haze.  Her cell was dark, bereft of any natural light that might have allowed her to track the hours more easily. 

            Before the woman could say more, Lonk and another guard appeared in the doorway, carrying between them a tub of sloshing water. 

            A quarter of an hour later, Imoen huddled in the bath, feeling scrubbed but not clean as the man Lonk stared at her over the woman’s shoulder.  There was nothing lascivious in his stare, but its fixedness unsettled her all the samse.  For her part, the woman had scoured Imoen with a rough cloth, reopening some of the scratches on Imoen’s arms and back that had only recently begun to heal.  Blood mingled with the water, and to Imoen’s horror, the woman dipped her finger in and stirred a red eddy, pressing the drops to her lips. 

            “Delicious,” she breathed, laughing as Imoen scrambled to her feet a sloshed messily out of the tub, finally fully alert for the first time in days. 

            “Stay away from me,” Imoen warned, as Lonk looked on impassively.  Her only thought was that the woman was mad, perhaps even a fellow inmate.  She knew from vague recollection that the other prisoners were at times allowed to leave their cells.  She had not been granted this privilege, but others had come to her door, to bang on the bars, rave about monsters, or in the case of one little girl, turn into a dog and simply stare at her mournfully. 

            The woman laughed, doing nothing to improve Imoen’s opinion of her sanity, and took a step closer, heedless of the puddles on the floor. 

            At this, Lonk stirred.  “The Coordinator said you were not to take liberties.”

            “The Coordinator does not control me,” the woman snapped, but subsided anyyway. 

            Relieved, Imoen quickly grabbed her blanket, to put some sort of barrier between herself and the woman.  She thought that perhaps she was going to have to try and stab her aggressor with the hairpin she had stolen from the woman’s knot of black hair when she had been helped from bed earlier. 

She tried to soothe herself with the thought that maybe being summoned to see this Coordinator wouldn’t be so bad after all.  After all, she was innocent.  Before bringing her to prison, the wizards had informed her she was in breach of Amn’s law that forbade practitioners of magic to cast spells without a license.  Now that she was no longer the captive of an insane and sadistic wizard, she at least had a chance of reasoning with those who held her.  She could explain what had happened, how she and her friends had been kidnapped by the real culprit.  By all accounts, Amnians were obsessed with coin; surely all they wanted was a hefty bribe.  She had been caught up in their net because of Irenicus’ violence, but now that he was subdued, they would have to see she was not a threat. 

Anyway, Abdiel was sure to be looking for her, and even if his name didn’t command as much respect in Athkatla as it did in Baldur’s Gate, several important people owed him large favors.  That could even be, she thought with mounting excitement, the reason Coordinator wished to speak to her now.  She could imagine Abdiel striding into his office, proclaiming her innocence and demanding her release, perhaps shoving a document signed by the Grand Dukes of Baldur’s Gate under his nose.  Properly cowed by Abdiel’s irrefutable evidence, not to mention Jahiera’s stern glare and Minsc’s imposing stature, the Coordinator would have Lonk escort her to freedom, while Irenicus rotted away in a cell.  Her only regret would be not being able to kill him herself.  The thought of taking a dagger and plunging it into him again and again—starting with his eyes—was so pleasing that Imoen was surprised out of the fantasy.  Never before had such a grisly idea held so much appeal.  No, he must have a clean death, she silently amended.  An execution, not a murder.

            She wondered how they were holding Irenicus.  On the way to the prison, he had been wrapped in chains of iron and gagged with an iron mask inset with runes meant to render the wearer deaf and mute.  They had been kept mostly separate throughout the journey—no doubt the Cowled Wizards meant to deprive them of the opportunity to conspire together—until the very end, when they had been bundled together in the filthy bottom of a tiny cart.  As they clattered toward their final destination, Imoen felt his eyes on her through the holes of the mask.  She had tried to scoot as far away as the limited space would allow, but he had moved with her, covering her as much as possible with the length of his body in a gesture that would have seemed protective if Imoen hadn’t known better. 

            Pushing the memory aside, Imoen looked around for her clothes.  She would have to warn the Coordinator about Irenicus.  Even wrapped in iron and anti-magic wards, he was still dangerous.  And if her glimpses of the other prisoners were any indication, the Coordinator’s charges enjoyed some modicum of liberty.  Irenicus was too dangerous for any such allowances.  With luck, this advice would also serve as a show of good faith, and would dispose the Coordinator more favorably towards her.    

“I’d like to get dressed,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.

“Here,” she shoved a bundle of cloth into Imoen’s hands, which turned out to be a gauzy muslin shift of surprisingly superior quality, so finely woven it was almost sheer.  Imoen eyed it, nonplussed.   

            “Where’s the rest?”

            “You mean those rags you came in with?” The woman asked scornfully.  “They were burned.”

            Seething, Imoen tugged the shift on over her head, and wrapped the blanket around her like a shawl, not caring that it overwhelmed her petite frame and smelled strongly of mildew. 

            The woman sneered superciliously at her, then turned on her heel and left without another word, leaving her alone with Lonk. 

            “The Coordinator will see you now,” said Lonk again, his inflection and tone eerily identical to the way he had spoken the phrase before.  He led Imoen out of the cell block and down a narrow corridor, maintaining her arms in a vicelike grip for the duration.   

The Coordinator’s office was unexpectedly cozy.  A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, next to which a sleeping cat was sprawled.  The Coordinator was bent over his desk, quill in hand. 

            “That will be all, Lonk,” he said, without glancing up.  Lonk dropped Imoen’s arm as if it had become scalding, and backed out of the office.  In the brighter room, Imoen could see a fine sheen of sweat coated his features.    

            “Do sit down.  You’ll have to excuse my sister’s lack of manners,” said the Coordinator. 

            “Your sister?” Imoen stammered. 

            “Bodhi.  I do believe it is she who dressed you.  That garment is elven-made, you know.  Her idea of a little joke.”

            “Please, listen to me.  Um, sir!  I think we may all be in danger.” 

            The Coordinator rose and went over to the window, his back to her. 

            “Do you?” he asked.  “Do tell.”

            Ignoring her growing uneasiness, Imoen plowed on.  “The mage who was brought in with me, Irenicus.  Please tell me you left him in his chains and threw away the key.”

            “I believe the mage is secure,” said the Coordinator, not turning around.  “After all, are we not in Spellhold, rumored to be the most secure of all magical prisons?”

            “You have to understand,” Imoen almost wailed.  “Irenicus is a monster.  If you’re not going to execute him, at least make sure he can never harm anyone else.  There’s no forgiving crimes like his.”

            “And what crimes are these?”

            Agitated, Imoen sprang to her feet.  “You must have heard.  Before they took him, he killed almost a dozen wizards, simply because they were in his way.”  In her frantic pacing, she almost tripped over the cat.

            “How did you come to be involved with this _monster_ , my dear?”

            There was a short pause.  Modulating her voice, Imoen replied, “He abducted and _tortured_ my friends and me, without cause.”

            The Coordinator whirled around and grabbed Imoen’s wrist, just in time to prevent her from plunging the letter opener she had palmed from the desk into the back of his neck. 

            “Torture?  Silly girl, you just don’t understand what I’m doing, do you?” Irenicus chuckled, and her nose was filled with the scent of him, terrifying and familiar, a bonfire on a cold night.

            His touch was too much to bear.  Imoen found herself trembling so violently she could hardly stand.  Irenicus dragged her close enough for their bodies to stand flush, but nevertheless maintained a sliver of distance between them.    

            “Imoen,” he said softly, biting down on the last letter of her name.  He stared into her eyes, and she felt her own start to fill with tears. 

            “How pretty you look, with the blood cleaned off your face,” he said, using his thumb to smear a tear across her cheek, the finger digging into her flesh just enough to rob the gesture of any tenderness. He closed the final distance between them at last, and her shuddering intensified, her teeth chattering so violently she feared they might crack. 

            Irenicus’ mouth quirked.  “You know what I appreciate most about you, Imoen?”  He asked.  “Although you’re not the most beautiful of women, nor the wisest, I’ve always found you quite amusing.”  He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply.  “How is it that you always smell of…what is the word?  Apricots?”

            Imoen had shed the blanket in her attempt to catch the wizard unawares, and was now horribly conscious of how thin her garment was.  Her knees buckled, and Irenicus clutched her to him, shoving his thigh between her legs.  She ceased trembling and went limp, as pliant as a wax doll.     

            “To think you criticize me for playing with _my_ food.”  Bodhi stood in the doorway, having discarded her maid’s habit in favor of an intricately tooled leather bodice.  Her black hair hung in loose waves about her shoulders. 

            “Did she faint already?  You haven’t even unwrapped her yet.”

“Don’t be fooled by her stillness; she’s already tried to kill me once.  It’s unfortunate, because until that moment, she had been acquitting herself quite charmingly indeed.  In fact, I believe she was about to inform the Coordinator that she suspected the monster Irenicus of exerting a nefarious influence over some of Spellhold’s denizens, when she noticed your dead cat.  Now, she’s simply trying to retreat to a place she thinks is beyond my reach.  As if all that interested me were mere manipulations of the flesh.  She continues to mistake the pain for an end, rather than the means.”           

            Bodhi arched her brows, ebony bows bended above the glittering arrow tips of her eyes.  “I wager I can awaken her,” she said, baring her teeth. 

            Irenicus glared at her.  “No.  We did not bring Imoen all this way so that we could show her monsters, but so that she could show a monster to _us_.  She has a greater purpose than providing you with fleeting carnal gratification.”

            Bodhi rolled her eyes, clearly having heard this lecture before.  “Jon, let me come in,” she said, her voice taking on a wheedling tone.  “You said she was for me, but you won’t even share.”

            “Enough.  You grow tiresome,” said Irenicus, summoning a brief gust of wind to slam the door shut in his sister’s face.  In doing so, he lifted one of his hands from Imoen’s back; at the same time, she straightened, supporting her own weight and causing him to reflexively loosen his grip.  Imoen lifted her arms and shoved against his chest with all her might.  Most of his weight had been on one leg, making it easier to unbalance him.  Panting, she dashed for the fallen letter opener.  Not the most effective of weapons, but her options were limited.  Even if she could attempt any kind of working before Irenicus overcame her with brute force, her spellbook was gone.

            Desperately, Imoen whispered a quick cantrip to invoke a surge of electricity, sending it crackling through the letter opener.  With a harsh cry, she flung herself towards Irenicus, brandishing her weapon.  With a smirk, he cast a shield to negate her spell, only to have her continue her rush right past him to sail through the open window.          

            The dimension door was waiting for her in midair, depositing her neatly back into Irenicus’ arms.

            “Now then,” he whispered.  “Time for more experiments.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I never read Philip Athan's novelization of the "Baldur's Gate" game, although the name for the protagonist Bhaalspawn in this story was inspired by that of Athan's main character.


End file.
